Although the letter H exists in Spanish, it’s always silent at the start of a word. But, of course, it has to be pronounced for foreign words. And when it is, it’s usually given the sound of the Spanish J. So it was that I was surprised to hear on the radio yesterday that the winner of the latest Tour de France had been the terrifying-sounding Khaynreech Khessler. Or Heinrich Hessler, as he’s known back home in Germany.

I mentioned that one often finds fliers on one’s windscreen after parking in town. Or even outside one’s house. This week there was one for a course aimed at making you a Manipulador de alimentos. Or, according to my dictionary, a person who handles food.So, presumably a course on food hygiene. Rather than one aimed at giving you skills in making rude things out of carrots.

I read this week that there’s a mood of sackcloth and ashes in post-crisis Ireland. The Irish, it’s said, are angry with their government but, in a fit of collective guilt in respect of their overindulgence, blame themselves even more than they blame the politicians. I was tempted to attribute this to the instinctive guilt harboured by all Catholics but, when I asked myself whether the Spanish are showing the same sentiment, found it hard to conclude they are. Possibly more of a fatalistic “Well, it was too good to last and we probably didn’t deserve it. But, hey, it’s summer and Fiesta time. Let’s get on with the fun.”

And why not?